We took up our gears more than 30 days before to set out and conquer our own thoughts, presumptions, plans, and ideas. It had been a consecutive flow of meeting new people, some becoming friends, some leaving a distant but poignant memory, catching a lot of sights (and a bug along the way).
The collection of wild life, both on land and underwater was truly a new way to appreciate the many wonderful things around us. Before this trip, I had only the opportunity to wonder through the pages of books and to finally see these colours come alive within inches from me, was beyond anything any amount of money can buy but worth every penny of it.
Our stays took us to the deepest virginal rainforests, rivers, huts built by the hands of the local in the simplest material that spoke of ultra comfort for these people, and the smells of the sea, the sounds of lapping waves as you slept idle along an empty beach.
Our days took us to moments when you swept your thoughts far away from everything. It wasn’t hard, I had felt like I was away in another world, kind of like Conan Doyle’s Lost World and I was surrounded with the twittering of the real kind, hermit crabs and monitor lizards weaving train track patterns on the sand, and an odd beetle that tried to force itself into your home.
Our steps took us to scale high into the hearts of caves. We went into darkness that taught us to see with how we felt. We learned about team work. We learned about respect for the local knowledge and took time out to stop and ask questions. Every downpour or unexpected alteration to the plan was a given opportunity to learn.
Most of the people we met were the locals. By that, I mean the true locals, people who had been born and bred here, generations after another. Their hands still catch the fish their forefathers had, their heads still thought of the same ways on making a boat their predecessors had. Almost all led a hard life but not short of friendly demeanor. Everywhere I went, there was a wave, a smile, definitely a “hello” despite many who don’t even learn English. A lot of them didn’t even have the privilege of going to school.
What struck me most was not the hard ways of their existence. I truly believe that they had been surviving so eloquently for many years, blending in with the local stock, adopting the ways of life, extrapolating their own. That to many of us city dwellers, we couldn’t or just fail to fathom how they could possibly build a home on top of a house made of poles, wooden planks, on the shallow base of a sandy bottom in the open sea. They were extremely self sufficient in food for the sea provided everything they need and more. Anything they couldn’t consume, they sell at such an affordable price that I could never look at buying a latte at Starbuck’s the same way again. Yet, these locals live on.
Every day life goes about the same pace. Some days are busier, others not.
But the children were everywhere. They wandered the streets. Some will hang about the rocky cliffs by the harbor. Not many looked like they were ready to go to school, not because of their age appearance but more of the hour of the day, and the lack of books and bags. My knowledge led me to suspect there must be schools built by the government here. What I didn’t know nor confirm is that these kids, some probably without the “right” papers, were left to spend their days picking up empty plastic bottles for resale. You are talking about an eight-year old. How long to go until you retire from this? Then what – move on to ship building? That didn’t sound as bad as it’s a skill nonetheless. I hope the diving industry prospers here as that may serve as an incentive to learn, but many resorted to being fishermen and builders for another big cement monstrosity that I had no idea in what divine purpose it served the local people here.
Our journey through the jungles, into the old cities like Sandakan, and here in Semporna, had allowed us to look at the different strokes of controlled and uncontrolled immigration had done to a place. As we spoke at breakfast within a local mamak joint this morning, a hoard of policemen came by for their tucker. They all carried a West Malaysian name tag. They all looked West Malaysian. Yes, this sounded like a pigeon-holing statement but this is fact. There is a huge influx of West Malaysians being brought into East Malaysia, mainly from the government bodies and the police / military departments. For the sole purpose of army votes or infiltrating and diluting the diversity of the ethnicity mix here in East Malaysia, only time can tell. Although many I spoke to (from both East and West Malaysians) concurred the former had taken place. I can only hope that with immigration, just as had all previous great civilizations done, inter-cultural amalgamation will bring about her good and evil, only that we had to make a more concrete effort to adjust and smooth the way to betterment.
But what about the other side of the immigration coin? What about the children born without the right papers and never get recognized for school? What do they understand about learning what is right and wrong? What is there in the future for them?
Maybe one day when they are old enough for a cigarette, when the young mind will be impressionable, someone will hand them a red ID card. Vote for this sign, you get RM300.
“Just like that?” the youth asks.
Just like that.
